I Will Carry You
by SqueakyTheDuck
Summary: Rewritten chapters 1 and 2 are up! The friendship between Captain and Engineer is evident. But when a weekend hiking trip goes horribly wrong, that friendship will be pushed to new limits and tested in new ways. R&R.
1. Clocks, Books, Penguins, and Hiking

_**A/N: The chapters are out of wack right now because I'm going through and redoing them. I'm making them longer and adding more details to explain things that I felt I had left out before.**_

"C'mon, c'mon…" The clock did not take kindly to being rushed. It slowed down considerably in order to spite the one attempting to hurry it through its steady rhythm.

At least that was what it felt like.

In truth the clock never changed its pace. It was just that Captain Stanley dearly wanted this shift to be over. After a long prank battle between Station 51's infamous Phantom and Pigeon duo, he was ready for the two day hiking trip that would take him and Mike away from it all.

"If that clock answers you, I'm gonna run."

The captain gave a start. He had almost forgotten that his Engineer was in the office with him. But then, it wasn't the hardest thing in the world to forget that Mike was there.

He turned to see his second-in-command regarding him coolly from his perch on the desk. "That's very funny, Michael." Cap replied. "Now tell me, how is it that you can be so patient while I'm pacing the floor waiting to leave? Surely you want this shift to be over as much as I do? So what's your secret?"

"A good book," Mike replied promptly, and resumed his reading.

"No time for that now." The impulsive senior officer snatched the book from his engineer's hands and tossed it aside. "It's eight o'clock. Our shift's over! B-shift's here. Time to go!" He gave a whoop of excitement and dashed out of the room, making a beeline for the locker room to change into his civilian clothes.

Mike shook his head good-naturedly, amused by his excitable friend's actions. He retrieved his book from its new residence on the floor and followed Hank to the locker room.

Mike crossed the bay at a leisurely pace, casting a glance at his beloved engine as he passed it. "Take good care of her, Phil." He admonished B-shift's engineer, who was polishing the front bumper.

Phil Reeves looked up and grinned. "No worries, Stoker. She's in good hands." He shook his head, amused. He had never seen any engineer who was as protective of their engine as Mike was of Big Red.

"You're the one who got a scratch on her last month." Mike reminded him, then proceeded to the locker room.

_That scratch was so tiny, a fly wouldn't have seen it. Only Stoker! _Phil thought with another amused shake of his head, and went back to polishing the chrome.

By the time Mike reached the locker room door, Hank was already changed. He dashed past his friend and ran out to the back lot where his truck was parked, throwing a "Hurry up, Pal," over his shoulder as he went.

Mike would not be rushed. Mike never rushed. He changed into his blue jeans first, then pulled off his uniform shirt and white undershirt and hung them up neatly in his locker. He then began digging through his locker. Where was that camping shirt he had brought?

Hank burst into the locker room at this point. "What's the hold up, Pal?" he asked impatiently. Mike looked up and smiled wryly. "I don't rush, Cap." He said, and resumed his search.

"What are you looking for?" Hank asked.

"My plaid shirt." Mike replied. "Seen it anywhere? Royal blue, long-sleeved, button-down…?"

Hank shook his head. Mike resumed digging.

"Can't you look faster?" Hank bounced from one foot to the other impatiently. Mike suppressed a smile, thinking to himself that his captain was acting a great deal like John Gage. He decided it would be wise to refrain from vocalizing this observation.

"Found it." Mike stood up straight, the desired item in hand.

"Excellent. Let's go." Hank grabbed his engineer by the arm and began pulling him towards the back lot. Mike buttoned his shirt as he half-walked half-ran to keep up with his friend, who still had a tight grip on his arm.

When they got to the truck Mike climbed up into the back and began rummaging around for his backpack.

"What are you doing?" Hank asked him. "C'mon let's get going."

Mike found his backpack and pulled out the clipboard he had stowed in the front pocket the day before. "Shouldn't we go over the checklist first?" he reminded Hank. "Make sure we didn't forget anything?"

"We can do that when we get there." Hank insisted.

Mike gave his friend a perplexed look. "That kinda defeats the purpose."

Hank sighed. "Ok, but let's make it quick."

* * *

Roy DeSoto stood in the bay, arms crossed over his chest, a laughing grin and dancing blue eyes betraying some amusement. His partner exited the day room, coffee cup in hand, and joined his friend at the squad's back bumper.

"What's so funny, Roy?" Johnny asked, curious.

"Them," Roy pointed to the back lot, and Johnny watched as the Captain and Engineer went over their check list, Mike standing in the truck bed, checking over things carefully, meticulously, Cap standing on the ground trying to rush him, Mike remaining unperturbed.

"Now who do they remind you of?" Roy raised an eyebrow.

Johnny snorted and shrugged. "I don't know? Who?"

Roy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Well I was thinking they remind me of you and me."

Johnny shrugged again. "Yeah I guess so." He said, handed his empty coffee cup to Roy, and walked off to the locker room to change.

Chet Kelly chose that moment to appear out of nowhere, as he so often did when his Phantom radar picked up on an opportunity to get a good jab at his Pigeon. "I'd be careful if I were you, DeSoto." He warned, a mischievous glint in his clear blue eyes.

Roy took the bait. "Oh, and why's that?"

Chet grinned. "If Cap ever hears you saying he reminds you of Johnny, he'll give you latrine duty for a year!" the Irishman made sure that his comment was loud enough to be heard from the locker room—but not the back lot.

Johnny was there in an instant. "And exactly what is that supposed to mean?!"

Chet looked down and grinned again. Perfect timing. Gage had been in the middle of changing clothes.

"I'll tell you as soon as you get your pants on!"

* * *

"Check. That's everything." Mike looked up from the clipboard. "Ah, Cap?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is Johnny standing in the middle of the truck bay in his underwear?"

Hank was undaunted. "As far as I'm concerned it's just another reason for us to leave now."

Mike laughed and stashed the clipboard in his backpack. He leaped down from the truck bed, opened the passenger door and slid in. Hank was already in the drivers' seat by the time he got there.

"All right!" the captain keyed the ignition and the engine roared to life. "Let's go!"

The truck sped out of the lot and onto the highway. "What's the matter, Mike?" Hank grinned, noticing his friend's somewhat agitated expression. "Not used to riding shotgun?"

"Ever heard of speed limits, Cap?" Mike shot back good-naturedly.

Hank glanced at the speedometer. "I'm only going five miles over." he insisted. "Cops usually don't mind that. It's the ones that go ten or fifteen over that they go after."

He was clearly not as cautious a driver as Mike was.

"Get used to riding shotgun, Mike," Hank said suddenly.

Mike raised an eyebrow.

Hank shrugged. "Well that _is _where a captain rides on the engine."

"What are you saying?"

Hank rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb, Mike, I'm telling you you're gonna be a captain someday."

"I don't think I would take a promotion." Mike answered.

"Why not?" Hank asked, puzzled.

"Well," Mike began. "For one thing, I don't like being in command."

"You took the promotion to engineer, the _second_-in command." His friend reminded him.

"Yeah, but," The engineer grinned. "That was the only way I could get to drive the engine."

"Ah." Hank nodded with a smile.

"And that's my second reason." Mike went on. "All I've ever wanted to be was engineer—ever since I was a kid."

"Well I guess that's reason enough to refuse a promotion." Hank admitted.

"Besides," Mike added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "If you're any example of what being a captain does to someone, I'd rather keep my sanity."

"Gee thanks, pal." Hank shot a mock-glare at his passenger. Sobering, he added, "I can tell you this, though. Your men would be in good hands. I've known that ever since I came to Station 51. You're dependable, Mike. I know that when something goes wrong, I can count on you to take care of things, especially if I'm hurt."

His mind went back to an incident at the beginning of the year. "When I was electrocuted at that rescue, for instance, the first thing that went through my mind—before I even hit the ground in fact—was that I knew you would handle things, that I wouldn't have to worry about it."

He paused for a second, then laughed. "It's funny how the mind works, isn't it? In that split second where everything seemed surreal and confusing, I was completely calm. The implications of what had just happened to me didn't hit until I hit the ground.

"I guess what I'm getting at," he concluded. "Is that I had no _reason _to be worried, because _I trust you_, Mike. That's why I think you'll be a captain someday."

Mike had remained silent throughout Hank's explanation. Now he spoke. "Thanks, Cap. That really means a lot to me, to hear you say that."

Both men were silent for a few minutes, neither quite sure what to say. Finally Hank broke the silence with, "Hey, do you know what's black and white and black and white and black and white and black and white?"

Mike raised an eyebrow and shook his head cautiously. Where had that come from?

Hank grinned. "A penguin rolling down a hill!"

Mike laughed, then returned with, "Do you know what's black and white and laughing?"

It was Hank's turn to raise an eyebrow. "No."

Mike shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "The penguin that pushed him."

Both men burst out laughing, glad to have a break from the awkward silence.

This sort of banter continued until they at last pulled up at the base of the mountain. "Looks like we're on foot from here." Hank said decidedly. He parked the truck and the two men set to work gathering their gear from the truck bed.

The hike that followed was a long one filled with twists and turns and winding paths; a pleasant three hours that led them up into the mountain and deep into the heart of the woods.

After some time they stopped to rest on a boulder that marked the bottom of a steep hill. Farther up the hill sat a large outcropping of rocks, behind which shone the sun, casting its light over the mountain and accentuating every detail of the picturesque landscape. Mike took all of this in with a quiet appreciation of the beauty that nature had to offer.

And that was when it happened.


	2. The Rockslide and the Problem

Hank was headed back towards the trail with some of their gear. Mike remained perched on the rock for a moment longer as he gathered up the rest of it. A rumbling sounded farther up the mountain, and the rocks above began to tremble and shudder.

And in an instant this perfect day became a nightmare as an avalanche of rocks came tumbling down the hill—right toward Mike.

He saw it coming at the last second and leaped up, but the numerous stones quickly overtook him. He cried out in pain and terror.

Hank whirled around at the sound and watched in horror as his friend was pummeled by the torrent of rocks. His first thought was to rush right in to help, but his captain instincts told him better. _Stay where you are, Hank. It won't do _him _any good if _you _end up pummeled too._

He stood back and waited for what seemed like an eternity as the last of the rocks fell, bouncing harmlessly over the ones already scattered on the ground.

Then all was silent.

The dust began to clear, and Hank saw Mike on the ground, the rocks all around him; he was trapped by several larger ones. He was conscious, for the time being.

"Mike!" Hank cried out his friend's name and ran to him.

"Hurts." Mike mumbled.

"Hang on, pal." Hank urged, pushing the stones off of his friend as he spoke. "Hang on."

He couldn't yet tell the extent of the injuries; blood trickled down the left side of Mike's face from a deep cut on his forehead. Hank prayed desperately that that would be the worst of it.

Upon clearing away the rest of the rocks, he realized that Mike's head injury was the least of his problems. Several deep cuts and scrapes showed through Mike's blue flannel camping shirt, and Hank suspected that his younger friend had a number of broken bones as well.

He knelt down beside his friend. "Do you think you can stand?"

Mike shook his head. "Hurts…too much."

"We gotta get out of here." Hank insisted. "The rest of those rocks could go at any minute. C'mon." He slipped his arm behind Mike's shoulders to help him sit up, then slowly helped him to his feet.

Mike gasped with pain as Hank helped him back to the trail. It wasn't a long walk—but the few yards felt like miles to the injured engineer.

Once back in the woods, Hank gently helped Mike to the ground. "Where you hurt, pal?" he asked anxiously, fear clouding his dark eyes and written into every corner of his face.

"Ribs." Mike answered weakly. "My arm...Head hurts…too" Hank probed gently at Mike's ribs and the indicated right arm, and found fractures in four ribs and in the right radius. His shirt grew redder with the blood from his wounds.

_He's losing too much blood. _Hank thought in dismay. _I've gotta do something to stop that bleeding._

"Where's the first aid kit?" He pondered aloud.

"Got buried…in the rocks...with most of…the gear." Mike answered. Hank cursed under his breath. Mike needed treatment, and fast. Who knew how long it would take to get to their lost gear. Who knew if any of it was even usable anymore?

He picked up the one bag they still had and began rummaging through it for something to use as a bandage, found only disposable dishes and a single canteen inside. He snorted with disgust and threw the bag aside—after clipping the canteen to his belt for later use—and turned his attention back to Mike.

There was no more time to waste. Mike needed treatment now. Hank stripped off his long-sleeved camping shirt and tossed it aside. Then, pulling off his white undershirt, he began tearing it into thin strips that could serve as bandages. It was growing cold, and his fingers grew numb with the effort, but Hank forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Don't know how long this'll last, pal," He said as he applied the first of the makeshift bandages to Mike's wounds. "But it should stop the bleeding for a little while."

"Now how 'bout that arm?" Hank queried, wondering how he was going to splint it. A tree limb just above the captain's head offered its services, and Hank accepted, breaking off one of the thinner branches from this particular limb and placing it against Mike's fractured arm as a splint; he tied it in place with another strip of cloth. He pulled his overshirt back on and sat down next to Mike to rest for a minute.

The adrenaline finally subsiding, Mike began to feel the effects of his energy being drained so unexpectedly. He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest for a while. Hank nudged him gently. "Stay with me pal." He urged.

"Tired." Mike muttered. "The pain…it's bad."

"I know, Mike." Hank sympathized. "Trust me, I know what that feels like." He thought back to the year before, when he had been electrocuted. The excitement of the situation had kept him alert for several minutes, but once things had calmed down, he had suddenly realized how tired he was—and how much he was hurting. He had spent most of the following 24-hour hospital stay asleep. Mike would not be so lucky, however.

"I can't let you go to sleep, pal." he said apologetically. "You've got a head wound there," he explained. "Could be a concussion. If you fall asleep you could go into a coma. You might not wake up."

"Try to stay awake." He pleaded.

"I'll…try." Mike agreed.

"You'll be okay, buddy." Hank said, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt. "We've gotta get back to the truck." he resolved. "Then we can get you to a hospital."

He looked up and scanned the area for some familiar landmark. Nothing stood out. It occurred to him that he had no idea where they were. The path they had traveled earlier that day was nowhere in sight. And it had taken so many twists and turns that Hank doubted they could find their way back to the truck anyway.

"I think we're lost, pal." He admitted to Mike. He began to pace back and forth, cursing himself for not thinking of this. "How could this have happened?" He growled, becoming more agitated with every new surge of anger and fear that entered his mind. "How could I have been so stupid, getting us lost like this!"

"It's just as much….my fault, Cap." Mike pointed out. "I should have been….watching too."

Hank finally came over and sat down beside his injured friend. He blew out a frustrated sigh and shook his head. "Yeah but," He faltered. "I…I don't know! I feel like I'm responsible for my men even when we're off duty. And now this. If only I had payed attention to where we were. We're lost and it's myfault. Man, I'm an idiot!"

_I'm better than this. _He thought suddenly. _Mike's depending on me to get us out of this, and I'm not gonna do either of us any good by blaming myself! This isn't how I respond when something goes wrong in the field, so why should it be any different here, and now? I've gotta _do _something!_

With that he made his decision.


	3. Little Brother

A few minutes later, Hank made his decision. He gently lifted Mike off the ground, then set off through the woods, carrying his wounded friend in front of him.

The hours passed slowly, and Hank kept up a steady stream of chatter to keep Mike awake. He moved as quickly as he could without jarring the injured man.

Hank established that they needed to go back the way they had come, but he was beginning to feel disoriented, and quickly realized that they had long since left the trail. _I have no idea where we are. _He thought wearily. He needed to clear his head.

He stopped and laid Mike on the ground, then knelt beside him. "What say we rest for a little while, pal?" he said, trying not to show the anxiety building inside him.

Hank honestly didn't know what to do. The sun was setting, it would be dark soon, and here he was lost in the woods with his best friend, who was in desperate need of medical attention.

As nighttime descended upon them, it brought with it the chill of the mountain air. Mike shivered as a gust of wind passed over them. Hank removed his overshirt and laid it over Mike as well as he could. He knew he could handle the cold better than Mike could right now.

It was too dark to travel now. "We'll stay here tonight." Hank told Mike. "We'll find help in the morning."

"Please, Cap." Mike gasped. "I'm…so…tired."

Hank knew what Mike was asking. "No, Mike." He said firmly. "I can't let you go to sleep. You know that. You've got to try and stay awake. Focus on something else. Uh…" he thought for a few seconds. "Tell me about when you were a kid. You've never really talked about it much."

Mike nodded. "I've…wanted to be…a fireman…my whole life. I…used to…imagine…driving one of the rigs…someday."

The night wore on as the two men exchanged stories. Hank did everything he could to distract Mike to make sure the younger man stayed awake. Of course this meant that Hank couldn't get any sleep either.

He found himself growing tired, but didn't allow it to show. The cold night wind whipped against his bare chest, chilling him to the core, but he didn't care. He had to stay strong, for Mike's sake. It was up to him to get them both out of this alive.

Seeing that Mike was starting to drift off, Hank once again nudged him gently to get his attention. "Mike," he said softly. "There's something I want to tell you."

"What?" Mike asked sleepily.

"When I was a kid," Hank began. "I was an only child. I always wanted a little brother. I begged my parents to give me a little brother, but they didn't want any more kids. Whenever I played with the other kids in the neighborhood, I was always the leader. I used to imagine what it would be like to have a little brother to be my assistant, my second-in-command. By the time I was a teenager, I had given up on the idea, I figured it would never happen."

He smiled. "But I was wrong. That wish came true when I was assigned to 51, when I met you." He placed his hand on Mike's shoulder. "You've become like that little brother I always wanted. I trust you, Mike. You've proven yourself to be the most reliable, hardworking man I've ever met. I couldn't ask for a better second-in-command."

Hank swallowed the lump in his throat. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Mike. I've come to rely on you when things get tough. I've never been able to figure out how it is that I can be freaking out about something, and you can stay so levelheaded."

"It's because," Mike replied with a weak smile. "I'm not…a paranoid maniac."

Hank laughed in spite of himself. "I guess that's it. But it's your levelheadedness that keeps me from going over the edge. If it weren't for you, I'd probably lose the rest of my sanity." He added, referring back to Mike's comment earlier that morning.

"Don't die, Mike." He pleaded. "I need you, little brother."

_**A/N: I wrote this chapter because I got to thinking about how the fans say that Johnny and Roy are like brothers, and I started thinking about Mike and Cap's friendship, and I realized that if the writers of the show had shown it more, it could have been the same thing.**_


	4. Snowflakes And Memories

Morning dawned bright and early and found our heroes cold and weary, but still hanging on. Mike was no stronger today than he had been the night before, and they had to keep moving. This meant that Hank once again had to carry him through the tumultuous terrain.

After three more hours he came upon a stream. Their own water supply having run out late last night, both men were becoming dehydrated. Hank dropped to his knees beside the stream and helped Mike into a sitting position, moving behind him and putting one arm around him for support.

He dipped his canteen into the water, then held it up to Mike, who, although feeling nauseas due to his head injury, drank heartily of the cool liquid.

Hank then drank the remaining water in the canteen, then dipped it into the stream and filled it once again. This time he capped it and clipped it onto his belt for later.

"Cap," Mike groaned. "Are you sure…it's a…concussion?"

_Poor Mike. _Hank thought. _He really wants to go to sleep._

"Sorry, pal." He said sympathetically. "I'm afraid so. Look, you've been feeling dizzy, you threw up three times last night, you said your head hurts, that's a concussion, no doubt about it."

Mike nodded understandingly and leaned back against Hank's shoulder, feeling too weak to sit up any longer.

"Don't worry." Hank said, as much for his own benefit as for Mike's. "We'll find help. Somehow." _I'm not feeling so good myself. _He thought, recalling the shortness of breath and fatigued feeling he was experiencing. He wondered briefly if something was wrong with him, but quickly shook off the thought. _I'm just tired, that's all._ He told himself.

"How?" Mike panted. "Everyone who…knows where we are...thinks we'll…be gone…'till tomorrow. They won't send a…search party…out…until after that."

Mike stared up at Hank, pain and fear in clear blue eyes. "We can't…hold out…that long."

"I know." Hank admitted. "But we've got to keep going." That said, he gently lifted Mike again and set off once more.

The morning sunlight had long since disappeared and been replaced by gray storm clouds. _I hope it doesn't start raining. _Hank thought wearily. Just as the thought entered his mind he felt something light and cold land on his shoulder. _A snowflake? Aw, drat! That's even worse. As if I wasn't cold before._

The single snowflake was followed by many more as a light snowfall slowly covered the mountain. By this point, Hank was freezing, but still he pressed on, determined to get his wounded friend to safety.

"Stay with me, pal." He repeated for the who-knew-how-manyeth time as Mike began to nod off again. "C'mon, keep talking. Tell me something else about when you were a kid. Anything. Uh…how old were you before you said your first words?"

"Five." Mike answered, desperately wanting to rest, but knowing it wasn't an option. He figured he might as well keep his mind occupied. "I was five. I didn't talk…for a long time. It…worried my parents."

It was starting to come back to him now. A long-lost memory of his early years...

_Three-year old Michael Stoker held his mother's hand as they walked down the toy aisle of the suburban supermarket in 1944. The small, blue-eyed toddler saw something that immediately caught his attention._

_He picked up the toy firetruck off the shelf and held it up to his mother._

_His mother looked over the toy. "Why do you want this?" she asked. Michael smiled and turned the box around, pointing to the text on the back._

_His mother read the first lines out loud. " 'Does you little boy want to be a fireman? This is the perfect toy for…' " she looked up. "You want to be a fireman?" Michael nodded eagerly._

_Mrs. Stoker thought for a moment. "All right." She relented, placing the toy in the shopping cart. As she continued through the store something occurred to her. She looked down at her son. "Wait a minute, Michael. How did you know what the box said?"_

_Michael shrugged. Mrs. Stoker, though surprised that Michael could already read, decided to seize the opportunity to try and get the quiet boy to talk._

_She pointed to a sign that said 'Oranges, 0.15'. "What does that sign say?" she asked him, hoping he would vocalize his answer. Instead, Michael walked over to the orange display, situated at least ten feet away from the sign, and picked up an orange, holding it up to his mother to indicate he understood._

_Mrs. Stoker sighed. "Very good." She praised, genuinely impressed at Michael's ability to read, but secretly disappointed that he hadn't spoken._

"She…kept trying." Mike summed up after giving a brief description of the incident. "I…didn't realize it…at the time…though."

"When did you realize that it worried people?" Hank asked in an attempt to keep the conversation going.

"About…two years later." Mike answered.

"_I'll get it." Michael's father opened the door in answer to the knock. He was greeted by a man in a suit and a woman in a business dress. "Can I help you?"_

_The woman spoke first. "Yes, we're here regarding your son."_

"_Michael?" Inquired Mrs. Stoker, who had joined her husband at the door._

"_Yes, that's right." The mysterious man put in. "It has come to our attention that your child may be…well, how do I put this…retarded."_

"_What?!" Michael's parents exclaimed in unison. As if on cue, the five-year-old came bounding down the stairs, carrying a stuffed fire engine he had received for his fourth birthday and wearing a plastic red firemans' helmet._

_Upon seeing the strangers at the door, he approached to investigate. His mother hastily picked him up and held him close to her._

"_Please hear us out." The female stranger said patiently. "We believe that your son may be mentally handicapped, due to his lack of speech, and we recommend putting him in a home."_

"_A sanitarium!?" Michael's mother exclaimed. "My son is _not _retarded." She told the visitors defensively. "He is a very smart little boy. He could read by the time he was three, he knows addition and subtraction, even basic multiplication, and he's barely five! He can beat his grandfather—hi s grandfather mind you!—at a game of chess. And he knows more about fire engines than you ever will! How dare you call him retarded!"_

_The visitors persisted. "Sometimes mentally handicapped children can display high intelligence in some areas and great weaknesses in other, such as speech, in your son's case."_

"_That doesn't mean anything!" Mrs. Stoker retorted. "I am _not _sending my son with you or anyone else." That said, she slammed the door and quickly bolted it._

"She didn't say anything…about it too me…for the rest…of the evening." Mike explained. "But…that night…"

_Michael crept down the stairs and ducked behind the railing to hide himself from view of his parents, who were talking in the living room. It was past his bedtime, but Michael's observant mind had told him that something was amiss._

"_It's okay." He heard his father say._

"_No it's not okay!" Was his mother's quick response. Michael's keen ears picked up on the muffled tone of her voice, and he realized that she was crying._

"_It doesn't mean anything." He heard his father reply. "You said so yourself. Look, there's nothing wrong with Michael. He's just a late talker. Lots of children don't talk until later on, around three or four years old."_

"_I know that!" Mrs. Stoker cried. "But I don't like it. He's five and he hasn't spoken yet. Don't you get it?" She took a deep breath. "I want to hear my son speak! Hear him ask me to read him a story, or have him come running inside telling me about his day, or even to hear him talk about those firetrucks he's so obsessed with."_

_At this point, Michael stood up straight, coming into view. His mother looked up. "Michael?"_

_Michael entered the living room and walked up to his mother. He stared at her for a moment, his blue eyes displaying an understanding greater than expected in a five-year-old.._

"_I love you, Mommy."_

_His mother looked up at him. "What?"_

"_I love you."_

_Mrs. Stoker stared for a moment, then pulled her son into a strong embrace, tears of joy running down her face._

"I talked…a little more…after that." Mike finished his story.

Telling the story had helped Mike stay awake and keep his mind off his injuries, at least for a little while, and hearing it had helped Hank forget about his own exhaustion as well.

But the fact still remained that both men were losing strength quickly. Hank stopped to rest once again, laying Mike beside him. He took the canteen and uncapped it, then helped to Mike sit up and drink the water. When he finished, Hank took the canteen and downed several gulps.

In truth Hank was far too cold to want to drink the cool liquid, but he knew he was becoming dehydrated again and needed the water. So he drank it anyway, then clipped the canteen back to his belt and leaned back against a nearby tree.

_We've got to find help soon. _He thought tiredly, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He looked over at Mike and wondered briefly if he should go ahead and let him go to sleep, but he was unsure of how long a person needed to stay awake after receiving a concussion, and he didn't want to risk it, not when it was his best friend, his brother.

_Brother. _Hank smiled as he realized how easily that thought had come to him.


	5. Help Is On The Way

"Sightseers."

"Huh?" Hank turned to Mike.

"Sightseeing planes…fly over…these mountains…all the time." Mike explained. "We could…set up…some kind of…signal."

"And if they can't help," Hank said, catching on. "They can call in someone who can! Mike, you're a genius!"

Hank leaped up and sprang into action, gathering tree branches and arranging them in the snow in an S.O.S pattern, as big as he could make it. As he worked he kept a close eye on Mike, making sure the younger man stayed awake.

After he put the last of the branches into place, he went back and sat down next to Mike again. "I guess we'll just have to wait now." He said.

"Y'know, Mike." He mused. "I think you're smarter than I am. No, I'll rephrase that. I _know _you are. Honestly, if I were in your condition, I wouldn't have had the presence of mind to think of something like that," He motioned towards the signal.

"I'm only brilliant…if it works." Mike replied.

The hours passed and the two men waited. Several times they heard the sound of an airplane motor, but none ever came into sight.

"Cap…" Mike said weakly. "Cap, I…"

"Mike? Mike!" Hank shook him gently. No response. Mike had slipped into unconsciousness.

Hank leaned back against a tree and sighed. He was ready to give up. Mike wouldn't last much longer.

He faintly heard the sound of another motor, but he paid it no heed this time. _It'll probably just pass us over. _He thought.

Then it came into view.

Forgetting his weariness, Hank jumped up and ran towards the signal he had set up, waving frantically. The sailplane lowered and began circling. The pilot held out his hand and gave the thumbs-up sign, then held out his microphone to indicate he was calling for help.

Hank returned the thumbs-up to show that he understood.

The plane flew out of site and Hank went back to Mike. "Hang on, Mike." He urged. "We've got help coming…I hope."

_**AN: Sorry for the short chapter. Hope you like it anyway. Now head over to that little blue button that says 'Submit Review'...**_


	6. The Rescue

The human body was not designed for these kind of conditions. Here were two men stranded on a snow-capped mountain, one of them battered and bleeding, the other shirtless in the frigid mountain air. Neither of them would be able to hold out much longer.

It had been half an hour since Mike had lost consciousness, and Hank prayed desperately that it wouldn't be too late by the time help arrived.

Hank wasn't feeling so well himself. To say that he was cold would have been an understatement, and on top of that, he was exhausted from the lack of sleep combined with the exertion from carrying Mike such a long distance.

After fifteen more minutes had slipped by with no sign of help coming, Hank was about ready to give up. But he couldn't! Mike needed him! His brother needed him.

From the distance came a faint whirring. It grew until it was unmistakable. A helicopter! Hank sprang to his feet and lifted his unconscious brother off the ground and ran towards the Fire Dept. copter as it landed.

The helicopter touched down, and Johnny and Roy, of all people, emerged.

"Cap!" Johnny exclaimed upon seeing the condition of his crewmates. "What happened?"

"A rockslide." Hank replied as they boarded the copter. The door slid shut and they took off, Roy and Johnny tending to Mike. "Happened yesterday." Hank went on, trying to catch his breath. "Mike…got caught in it. He has…from what I could…tell…a…broken arm…broken ribs…and a concussion. He was…dizzy…complained of…a headache…and threw up…several times…since yesterday. I…kept him awake…as long as…I could. He…passed out…about 45 minutes ago."

Johnny relayed this information to Rampart over the biophone, along with Mike's weak vital signs.

"Is he gonna…be…okay?" Hank panted.

"It's too soon to tell." Roy replied honestly. "You try to relax, okay? Are you all right?"

"I'm okay." Hank insisted. "Just…take care of Mike."

"You're sure you're all right?" Roy persisted.

"I told you, I'm okay." Hank protested. He _was_ feeling dizzy again, but he didn't think it important. "I'm just, uh…just a little…" Things started spinning. "Tired…" It all went black.

"Whoa!" Roy caught Hank as he passed out, and gently laid him back against the copter floor.

"Uh, Rampart, we have a second patient." Johnny relayed. "Male, 38 years old, passed out a few seconds ago. Vital signs, pulse, 120, respiration deep and labored, BP…Roy, what's his BP?"

"90 over 60." Roy answered.

"BP 90 over 60." Johnny continued. "Rampart, he's perspiring heavily and has a temperature of 103."

"51, star IV D5W and transport immediately." Came Brackett's gruff reply over the biocom.

"10-4, Rampart."

_So there you have it, the dramatic rescue scene. I might not get to post for a few days after this. I live in North Louisiana and we're in the predicted path of the hurricane. We've got a lot of evacuees coming up here and things are getting pretty hectic and we have to make preparations in case Gustav hits us hard, and my church is doing something for the evacuees tomorrow and I'll be helping out with it…so, yeah. A lot going on._


	7. Paying The Price For Sacrifice

_Ah, sorry I've taken so long to update. World class procrastinator. I'm supposed to be going to 'Procrastinator's Anonymous', but they keep putting off the meetings. Lol. Actually it was just procrastination combined with writer's block. Not a good combination. Anyways, on with show!_

The helicopter ride was one that Johnny and Roy would never forget. When the two paramedics, working an overtime shift, had first gotten the call about injured hikers stranded in the mountains, they had feared the worst, but hoped desperately that they would be wrong.

But they had been right. Somehow they had known. Roy, although by his own admittance not a religious man, sent a silent appeal heavenward, praying that his two friends would survive.

Hank drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the ride, and managed to tell the two paramedics the details of what had happened. They had lost most of their gear in the rockslide, he had done his best to bandage Mike's wounds and to keep him warm, and was Mike going to be okay?

"Just take it easy, Hank." Roy said gently. "We'll be at Rampart soon and the doctors will take care of both of you."

"I'm…all right." Hank insisted weakly, seemingly unaware of his condition. "Told you…I'm just…tired…"

"Tell that to the thermometer." Roy said dryly. "Your temperature just went up to 104. You're really sick, Hank."

"With…what?" Hank asked.

"We don't know yet." Roy answered.

"You just take it easy." Johnny put in.

At last the copter came to a rest on the hospital landing pad. The paramedics were met by two orderlies who helped to get the two patients onto the waiting gurneys.

They headed to the emergency entrance where Brackett and Early were waiting for them. "How are they doing?" Joe asked.

"Both are breathing heavily and diaphoretic," Roy reported as they wheeled the two gurneys down the corridor. "Mike has been in a coma for the past hour, and Hank's drifted in and out of consciousness for the past twenty minutes."

"All right," Brackett delegated. "Joe, you take Hank in 5, I'll take Mike in 3."

"You need us, Doc?" Johnny asked, hoping they would. He knew that he and Roy would both feel better if they were helping to treat their comrades, instead of just sitting around a waiting room.

Brackett nodded. "Yeah, one of you help Joe with Hank, the other one, come with me."

Johnny followed Brackett, and Roy went with Joe.

Kell set to work treating Mike, with Johnny and Dixie's help. They immediately began stripping away Mike's tattered clothing in order to treat his injuries. "What happened anyway?" Kell queried, examining the makeshift bandages covering Mike's wounds.

"Well," Johnny answered. "What I gathered from what Cap was telling us on the way up here, is that Mike was injured in a rockslide, and they lost most of their gear in the slide, includin' the first aid kit."

"I got that part." Kell said, removing the cloth bandages as he spoke. "What I don't get is what exactly Hank did to bandage these wounds."

"I think he tore his T-shirt into strips and used them to keep Mike from bleeding out." Johnny speculated.

"Hmm, well that was quick thinking on Hank's part." Kell remarked. "Let's hope it was enough. Johnny, compress."

Johnny handed the thick bandage to Kell, who in turn pressed it against the cut on Mike's forehead.

"Dix, bandage roll." Dixie handed him the desired dressing, and he began wrapping it around Mike's head to hold the compress in place.

He then set to work cleaning and properly bandaging the numerous cuts across Mike's body. "Johnny, splint his arm." he ordered.

Johnny complied as Brackett took care of setting Mike's broken ribs. "Does he have any internal injuries, Doc?" Johnny questioned worriedly.

"None that I can find." Kell replied. "He got lucky there, but he's not out of the woods yet. That's a pretty nasty head wound he's got. And his vitals still don't look too good. We need to get that pressure up."

For the next hour they worked to get Mike stabilized. At last they emerged from the treatment room into the hallway, where Roy stood waiting.

"How is he, Doc?" Roy asked, agitation evident in his voice.

"Well Hank did a good job out there." Brackett replied, allowing himself to smile slightly. "If he hadn't done everything he did, stopping the bleeding and keeping him warm, Mike wouldn't have lasted this long."

"Hank's paying for what he did, though." Dr. Early announced, walking up to the group. "Two days in the snowy mountains, no shirt, no sleep, carrying a man at least ten pounds heavier than him, took its toll on him."

Joe looked around at the questioning faces. "Hank has pneumonia."


	8. Hanging In There

_Argh, another short chapter. Well, hope ya like it anyways._

"Pneumonia?" Johnny practically squeaked the word.

Joe nodded grimly.

"Well, is—is he gonna be okay?" Roy asked, his worried voice betraying the calm exterior.

Joe shook his head uncertainly. "It's really too soon to tell." He said. "Mike and Hank will both be moved to ICU for observation. We'll put them in the same room. It may help them both on a sort of a subconscious level. Hey, shouldn't someone notify their families?"

"I've already called Cap's wife." Roy said. "She said she'd get Mike's son and drive him up here with her."

As if on cue, Emily Stanley appeared, coming around the corner with a brown-haired teenager trailing.

"Where's Hank?" Emily asked anxiously. "And how is he?"

The color drained from her face as Joe explained Hank's condition to her.

"Will he be all right?" She managed to ask.

"We don't know yet." Joe answered solemnly.

At this point, Michael Stoker Jr., Mikey to most people, stepped forward and asked hesitantly, as if afraid to know, "What about my dad?"

Joe a hand on the 14-year-old's shoulder, thinking to himself how remarkably similar Mikey's appearance was to that of the man in question.

"Mike's in pretty bad shape, Mikey." He said soberly. "And these next few hours will be critical, but he's made it this far. He's got a fighting chance."

Mikey attempted to swallow the lump in his throat as he said, "When can I see him?"

"I'll let you know." Joe replied. "C'mon, I'll take you to the waiting room." He put his arm around the blue-eyed boy's shoulders and walked down the hall with him.

Dixie turned to Emily. "Why don't you go with them?" She suggested. "The doctors will let you know when you can see Hank."

Emily nodded and reluctantly started off down the hallway after Joe and Mikey.

"C'mon," Brackett gestured to Johnny and Roy. "You guys can help us move Mike and Hank to ICU."

Johnny and Roy nodded and followed the doctors. It didn't take long for them to get the two injured men settled in ICU. Neither was looking good.

Mike. His brown hair partially visible above the bandage wrapped around his forehead, his right arm in a sling, resting against his chest, the white sling matching the color of the hospital gown he now wore. His left arm by his side, an IV hooked up. Still unconscious. At least his color was good.

Hank. Looking much worse. Heavy perspiration due to a high fever. Stripped down for cooling measures, with a cooling blanket covering him up to his waist, EKG leads hooked up to his chest, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Also unconscious.

"Doc," Johnny said quietly. "Will they be okay?"

Kell grimaced. "Like Joe said, it's really too soon to tell. We're doing everything we can." He patted Johnny, then Roy, on the shoulder. "Hang in there, guys." That said, he left the room.

"Tell that to them," Roy muttered grimly.

Johnny nodded with equal somberness, and the two left the room behind the doctor.

_So what's in store for our injured heroes? Read to find out._


	9. When I Sleep And When I Wake

The blackness swirled around him, slowly dissolving into indistinct patterns of light and color.

It all started coming into focus. Hank's groggy mind attempted to piece things together. He was in the hospital. That much was clear. He felt lousy.

That was also a given.

He had an oxygen mask on. He heard the distinct beeping of an EKG, felt the leads attached to his chest.

Questions began entering his head. Why did he feel so sick? What was all this equipment for? And why was a cooling blanket his only source of covering?

He turned his head slightly. There was another patient in the room. Mike! It was Mike. More questions.

Was Mike gonna be okay? Why wasn't he conscious yet?

Dixie! Dixie was here. Had she been here the whole time? It took every bit of energy Hank had in him to be able to speak.

"Mike." He croaked, his voice muffled through the oxygen mask.

"Shhh," He heard Dixie whisper gently. "It's all right, Hank."

"Mike." Hank repeated. "Is…he…okay?"

"He's doing fine." Dixie assured him. "He's stable. Now how about you? How are you feeling?"

Hank ignored Dixie's question. "Is he…gonna live?"

Dixie sighed, but she couldn't help smiling. Now she saw why Hank was so highly admired by his men. The man always thought of them before himself.

"Yes, we think Mike is going to make it—thanks to you. You did the right thing out there, keeping him warm, bandaging his wounds, making sure he stayed awake…..but the exertion and the cold took its toll on you. You have pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?" Hank mumbled. "So that's why I feel so lousy. It was…worth it…for Mike's sake."

"You get some rest, Hank." Dixie urged.

"Are you sure…he'll be…okay?" Hank asked again.

"Hank, you need to try and rest." Dixie insisted. "Look, Mike's going to be fine. I told you that. Now please try to relax and get some sleep."

Hank nodded wearily, finally realizing how tired he was. He allowed his eyes to drift closed, and within moments the dark-haired captain was fast asleep.

E!E!E!E!E!E!E!

His head hurt. He felt nauseous. His arm hurt. His ribs hurt. Everything hurt. His eyelids felt like they had sandbags attached to them. He forced them open and glanced around the room.

He saw Dixie approach his bedside. "And how are you feeling, Mike?"

Mike grimaced tiredly.

"Not too good, huh?" Dixie said.

Mike shook his head slightly. The nausea increased with the motion. He held his breath to keep from throwing up.

He noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Another patient in the room? Cap? It _was _Cap!

Dixie followed his gaze. "You don't know yet, do you?"

Mike didn't feel like talking, but his expression said it all.

"I'm afraid Hank has pneumonia." Dixie explained.

Mike shut his eyes and groaned softly. He opened them again and cast Dixie a questioning look.

"We really don't know how he'll do." Dixie told him. "He's fairly stable right now, but he's pretty sick. He came to about half an hour ago. He wanted to know how you were doing."

Dixie smiled. "He's asleep now. But I couldn't get him to relax until I convinced him that you're going to be okay."

Mike smiled. That was Cap alright.

"Do you feel up to a visitor?" Dix asked him. "Someone's been waiting a long time to see you."

Dix opened the door and said, "You can see him now."

Mike perked up slightly when he saw his son enter the room. He held out his left hand, which Mikey promptly grasped in his own hand as he sat down in the chair beside the bed.

"Dad," He choked, a single tear escaping down his face. "I've been so worried about you."

"Well we think he's going to be just fine." Dixie assured the boy. "But he'll be here for a few weeks. Do you have a place to stay, Mikey?"

Mike cast a questioning glance at his son. That was something he hadn't thought of.

"Yeah." Mikey replied. "Roy DeSoto offered to let me stay with him and his family."

Mike nodded. Bad idea. His head throbbed, and his stomach churned. He held his breath once again and waited a few seconds as the nausea passed. He groaned.

Mikey stroked his father's hair with his right hand, his left hand still in Mike's grasp. "It's okay, Dad." he soothed. "You're gonna be okay."

Mikey moved, as if to get up, and Mike tightened his grip on his son's hand, not wanting him to leave yet.

"Don't worry," Mikey assured him. "I'm not going anywhere. Not just yet anyway. I'm gonna stay here with you for a little while. But I want you to try and get some rest, okay?"

Mike smiled at his son's concern, thinking as he drifted off how lucky he was to have Mikey.

Mikey, as promised, stayed by his father's side for the next few hours, watching Mike as he slept.

"The two of you seem to be really close." Dixie observed. Mikey nodded. "My mom walked out on us several years ago." he explained. "Me and him, we're all each other has."

Another hour passed. There was a light knock at the door, then Roy poked his head in. "Hey, Mikey." He said with a small smile. "You 'bout ready to go now?"

Mikey nodded. "I guess so. Can you take me if you're still on duty, though?"

"I'm not." Roy stated. "Johnny insisted I take the rest of the day off. He called in Dwyer to come fill in for me."

"All right." Mikey stood up. "Bye, Dad." He whispered as he dropped a kiss on Mike's cheek.

As he left the room with Roy, Mikey cast one last glance over his shoulder.

"Nurse?"

"Call me Dixie."

"Okay, Dixie then. When he—" Mikey motioned across the room to Hank. "—wakes up, could you tell him that I said 'thank you' for saving my dad's life?"

Dixie smiled. "Sure I will."


	10. Pizza, Tears, and Being There

_**A/N: This chapter is a little unusual because it focuses on Mikey instead of one of the main characters. I just wanted to try this. Hope ya'll enjoy it.**_

Mikey stared silently out the window of the pickup truck as Roy drove down the highway. The boy yawned and propped his chin on his fist as he watched the sun disappear beyond the horizon.

Roy smiled at him as he pulled off into his neighborhood. "You tired, Mikey?"

Mikey nodded absently, watching the suburban houses rolling by.

"Well, we're here now." Roy said as they pulled into the driveway. Mikey grabbed his duffel bag from the seat next to him and got out of the truck and followed Roy up the walkway and into the house.

No sooner had they walked in the door, and Chris and Jenny were there, both talking excitedly.

"Hi, Mikey."

"How long are you gonna stay here, Mikey?"

"Can you come play with us?"

"Mikey's not going to be playing with you guys tonight." Roy intervened quickly. He put his arm around the boy's shoulders. "We're going to get him something to eat, and then he's going to go to bed. He's had a long day."

Mikey shot Roy a relieved smile. He turned to his two younger friends and shrugged. "Sorry guys, but I can't argue with a paramedic."

Nine-year-old Chris grinned. "Why not?" he said innocently. "I do it all the time."

Roy gave his son a mock-glare. Chris grinned again. "I'm just kidding." he insisted. "Dad's right."

"Yeah," Seven-year-old Jenny chimed in. "You can play with us tomorrow."

"You bet, guys." Mikey promised.

E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!

"Sorry this isn't much of a meal." Roy said, placing the plate of leftover pizza in front of Mikey. "We haven't done our grocery shopping this week."

"That's okay." Mikey insisted. "Pizza's a comfort food, anyway." He managed a smile. "At least to me it is."

Roy studied the boy for a moment. "Are you okay?" He asked at last.

Mikey nodded slowly. "Just a little shaken up, I guess."

E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!

Mikey lay in bed that night in the guest room of the DeSoto's house, thinking. Thinking about his dad, about the things Mike had taught him, of all the things they had done together, and about how close he had come to losing his father today.

Slowly, the tears came. He had managed to hold them back all day, but now, here alone in the dark, the memories of the day's fears flooding back to him all at once, the tears began to flow freely.

E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!E!

"Roy, what is it?" Joanne asked, awaking to see her husband creeping silently towards the door.

"I just want to go check on Mikey, that's all." Roy whispered, then disappeared into the hallway.

He rapped gently against the guest room door, which was slightly ajar, then pushed it open further. "Mikey?"

Mikey was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands. He was shaking. It took only a few seconds for Roy to realize that the boy was crying.

Roy stepped into the room and approached the bed. He placed a comforting hand on the teenager's shoulder. Mikey looked up at him through tearful blue eyes.

"Are you okay?" Roy asked gently.

Mikey nodded. "I will be." He said through a strangled sob.

"Do you want me to stay with you for a little while?"

Another nod. Roy sat down on the bed beside Mikey and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. Mikey leaned into the blond paramedic slightly, and the tears still flowed.

By and by he began to calm down. At last he sat up straight and turned to face Roy. "Thanks." Mikey sniffed, brushing a remaining tear from his face. "Thanks for just…being there."


End file.
